


Talisman

by aeroflot



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroflot/pseuds/aeroflot
Summary: Wilson's life isn't going as planned, but at least in New Orleans you can always get a drink.





	Talisman

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fun redux of House and Wilson's first meeting in New Orleans! I hope y'all enjoy it, this is my first fic for this community!

He knew this was a mistake as soon as he set foot in the bar. The colored lights and pulse of warm unbalanced bodies nearly drives him back out the door. But the vodka behind the bar is calling to him, and his ego had already taken enough blows for the week, if he backs out now he knows he’ll beat himself up for his cowardice all through this trip.

Not like he wasn’t already doing that anyways over the divorce. Deep down he had known she was unhappy, but fear of speaking that into existence had only driven the wedge further between them.

And now it was really happening, the divorce, James E. Wilson was getting divorced. The envelope was burning a hole in the inner pocket of his dark blue sports coat. He couldn’t open it, the words both existing and not, his own little paradox tucked against his chest. 

He finally makes it to a barstool and wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He gives his cohorts at sitting at the mirrored glass counter a cursory glance before bowing his head low in an attempt not to meet anyone’s eyes. He stares at his distorted reflection on the bar. His hair is a mess and the curve of metal beneath the glass pulls his tight-lipped nervous frown into a comical lopsided grimace. 

He wonders if they can tell that he isn’t one of them, or maybe hasn’t admitted he’s like them. He looks like them, young, maybe just a little overdressed, and male. Everyone in the bar is male, and, despite being well-acquainted with all-male board rooms and golf leagues and sometimes even hospital staff on certain rotations, he is supremely disturbed by the lack of a single woman’s face in the crowded room.

He shouldn’t be, this is a New Orleans' gay bar, he’d come in for that exact reason. 

Maybe this was a lame attempt to buck his cowardly streak, but it was the best one he could come up with. Screwing his way through the nurses might have been a more comfortable risk but it was hardly a break the mold for him.

“Hey.”

James’ head snaps up, to his relief it’s only the bartender staring down at him, he isn’t quite ready to out himself as first timer in a place like this.

“Ya want something?” says the bartender and James nods silently before realizing that he does actually have to place an order to make the guy go away.

“Just a vodka and soda.” His voice isn’t as timid as he expected it to be, in fact, it’s practically confident.

The bartender takes his credit card and steps away with it, James wonders how obvious it is that he’ll need an open tab.

He’s slowly getting used to the blue and purple lights that are bouncing off every reflective surface in the bar, nearly any surface flat enough in the room is mirrored or glossy. The music blaring over the speakers is being gradually increased until the counter is trembling with the vibrations. 

He straightens his back and squares his shoulders before looking around, trying his damndest not to be noticed surveying the packed dancefloor and various groups of men near the door and tables chatting and sipping their drinks.

At about the same time a black napkin and drink are slid in front of him a man sits heavily on the stool beside him, startling James nearly to the point of leaping off of his seat and out the door. Instead he braces himself and grips the cold glass tumbler like a lifeline. 

“Hey.”

James swallows and nods his head in acknowledgement of the greeting and gruff voice of the man beside him, but he doesn’t look up. He pulls his drink closer so that he can stare into the ice instead of his distorted reflection. 

There isn’t so much as a pause before the man says, “I said ‘hey’ does no one have manners anymore?”

Now he looks up from his drink and is struck by the intense gaze he is suddenly caught in. The wide fixed blue eyes seem to bore into him, he’s a deer in headlights and the Mack truck bearing down on him is only inches away now.

“First time in a place like this?” 

James blinks and wills himself out of his stupor. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The man smirks, one corner of his lips jerking upwards, his face is an exercise in angles, refreshing in the sea of twenty-somethings with frat boy haircuts. The blue lights are catching on the streaks of silver peppering his closely cropped hair. James can tell the stranger is older than he is, not that much older though, but enough that the bags beneath his wide eyes are beginning to weigh on the skin and small grooves give away his frown lines. Early to mid-thirties then and wearing it well.

“You guess so? You either have or haven’t been in a gay bar.”

James clears his throat nervously. “Y-yeah, it’s my first time.”

“See? Was that so hard? What’s your name?” He doesn’t ask the question so much as he demands an answer, James feels like he’s being interrogated and is suddenly aware of the sweat gathering along the collar of his undershirt.

He hadn’t planned for this, for giving out his name, that seems too personal, a stranger in a gay bar knowing his name would make this all too real. He glances frantically at the shelf of booze behind the bar and then back at the man sitting next to him. 

“Mark,” he extends his hand with a jerk instinctively, “I’m Mark.”

The hand that wraps around his is cool and rough, he feels calloused fingertips brush his wrist lightly but the grip is like a vice on his hand.

“Whatever you say Keyser Söze,” the man laughs dryly, “and you can just call me Smirnoff.”

James pulls out of the handshake like he’s been burned, his face hot, “C’mon that’s ridiculous.”

“Tell me your name then.”

James doubles down. “Mark’s my name.”

“Show you mine if you show me yours?” the man lifts an eyebrow suggestively and James balks.

“You first.”

“Fine,” the stranger rolls his eyes, “I’m House.”

“Ha!” James barks out. “Yeah right, just call me Mark okay,  _House_?”

House scoffs and slams the palm of his hand down on the bar making several patrons, including James, jump. “ _Gar_ _ç_ _on_!” he calls out leaning away from James, he hadn’t realized just how close that handshake had pulled them, and staring at the bartender, who glares back at him. House twirls his pointer finger in the air. “Two...” he trails off, “What are you drinking?” he demands leaning back towards James. 

It’s hard to think with House so far into his space, his bright eyes and knitted brow just about fill James’ vision. “Uh, vodka and soda,” he finally sputters out.

“Pshh,” House waves that off. “You’re such a girl.” He turns again to the bartender who has now fixed James in the same glare he has House in. James tries to escape by squeezing the lemon wedge clinging to the edge of the glass into his drink and then dropping the rind in as well. He sucks the sour juice off his fingers absently as House orders, Sam hates when he does that.

“Two shots of tequila and keep ‘em comin’.” 

James’ shoulders slump, tequila is not a friend of his, he sips his drink trying to focus on the lemon rather than the vodka.

House spins to face him and props an elbow up on the bar before resting his cheek against a closed fist. “So tell me...” 

James looks up at him pitifully over the rim of his glass.

House’s lips twist into a wry smile, “What brings you here? Got a wife?”

James nearly chokes, cold vodka and soda trickle over his chin and down his throat, embarrassed, he wipes the liquid away quickly. If things keep going like this he won’t be able to wear this jacket again until he can get it to the cleaners at home.

House is still grinning wildly at him, clearly pleased with himself.

James can feel the envelope sitting heavily in his pocket once again, “No, I don’t.” That feels like a lie.

“Handsome doctor like you and no wife?”

James flinches. “How’d you know I’m a doctor?” 

House looks offended. “Thought you were smarter than that, ' _Mark_ ’,” he sneers when he says the name, “There’s a medical conference in this part of town and you’ve got on a class ring, dressed to impress.”

“Then why’d you ask if I was married?” Wilson waves his left hand with its empty ring finger. He’d left it in the hotel room, tucked safely into a pocket in his suitcase.

“Do you think puttin’ a ring on it means much here? I know fresh blood when I see it.” Their shots arrive and House throws his back instantly, much to the chagrin of the bartender. “Being  _unmarried_  is a chronic condition among out of towners.”

James picks up the shot glass and assesses it. “You’re an out of towner.” He throws back the shot.

House scoffs, “ _Yeah,_ well I don’t give men fake names at gay bars.”

James chews his lip and stares at him. He’s handsome, but apparently a regular in places like this. Maybe that’s what he needs though, a regular, someone to show him the ropes, get adjusted to things like this. Someone who wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t call back.

He stands his ground though, “Mark is my name.” 

House doesn’t stop smiling at him, James squirms under his stare, he isn’t used to being appraised like this but a part of him appreciates it, it’s been a long time since anyone looked at him with such interest.

Another two shots appear and vanish just as quickly. James can feel the buzz of alcohol and music in his head and chest. He leans closer to House, more confident with booze in his system. 

“So, you’re a doctor then? Or do you just follow these conferences around hoping to score yourself one?”

House laughs and downs another shot, the bartender is on a roll it seems. “Oh, I’m just here for the doctors,” he replies, “That’s actually the whole reason I went to medical school.”

James drinks his as well and decides he needs to slow down or else risk missing the early morning talks in favor of staring into a toilet bowl. Much to his dismay the bartender has already filled their glasses, it’s clear he wants the pair gone as soon as possible. James nudges the glass towards House.

“I don’t think I should- Do you want it?”

“Drink it, you’re gonna need it.” House replies and punctuates his sentence with the shot.

James picks up the glass slowly and eyes the pale liquid. “Why?”

House sets his shot glass down firmly and looks James in the eye, the tone suddenly is serious. “Because you’re going to ask me to dance.”

“Uh,” James starts awkwardly, “I don’t dance.”

“Good neither do I.”

“Then why-” James pauses when House narrows his eyes at him, maybe it’s the unfamiliarity of it all that’s making him oblivious, or maybe it’s the tequila. He swallows down the shot and with it all his reservations. 

“Okay,” he says as he fights the urge to grit and bare his teeth when the alcohol burns on the back of his tongue. “Dance with me.”

House is smirking again when he slides off the barstool and James follows him closely as they step into the crush of bodies. For a moment he’s claustrophobic, overwhelmed by the jostling bodies and intensity of the blaring music, but then House’s hand is on the small of his back, pulling him close, guiding him carefully to an empty space beside the wall.

James looks up at him, House is watching him intensely, his eyes hooded. When they make it to the wall House is closer than ever and James can feel his warm breath on his cheek. For a moment neither of them moves, James can feel the blood rise to his cheeks and he stares at House’s lips just barely parted.

“Is this alright?” James feels the rumble of House’s voice against his own chest and nods. Its more that alright, its everything he’s wanted for so long. Anyone else and James is sure this wouldn’t have happened, but House with his wide blue eyes and low voice and, god, his firm hand and light fingertips, he is everything James could have dreamed of.

“Yes,” he whispers finally and House’s lips are on his in an instant. His skin is searing against James’ own and he slides a hand up House’s t-shirt desperate for more contact. House’s kiss is unrelenting, his teeth graze James’ bottom lip for just a moment before his tongue brushes against the tender skin he left behind. James catches House’s tongue with his own and suddenly is the kiss is so much deeper. James grips the back of House’s neck with his free hand while the other maps out House’s chest, relishing the thud of House’s heart beneath his palm.

House has both arms wrapped around James’ waist beneath his sports coat, the fingers of his right hand picking at where James’ shirt is tucked neatly into his trousers. He breaks the kiss and mutters breathily, “Who wears this many layers in New Orleans?”

James is too dizzied by the kiss to respond but he agrees, especially when House pushes aside his shirt collar with his cheek to nip at James’ throat.

James’ moans wishing he’d had House’s common sense and just worn a t-shirt, but he hadn’t expected to get this far. In fact, just an hour ago he nearly walked past the bar altogether and headed back to his hotel room, unable to gather the nerve to set foot inside. But now here he was, his head hazy with want and desperate to have House’s lips on his again.

He slides his hand from House’s neck and gently uses his thumb to lift House’s mouth to his own. He can feel the skin near his collarbone pulsing, a sure sign of a long-lasting bruise. House has forgone trying to untuck James’ shirt in favor of firmly pressing his fingertips into the sensitive dip of James’ lower back, a pressure that he can feel all the way in his groin. 

His hard-on is pinned against House’s thigh and he shifts slightly, gasping at the slightest friction. House gets the message and grinds his leg against James’ erection.

He’s seeing stars.

When he groans House breaks the kiss and stares at James, cross-eyed and lightheaded. House in turn ruts against James’ hip, he can feel House’s erection through the denim there and wonders if the both of them will get off like this, desperately grinding against each other surrounded by dozens of inebriated bar patrons. 

The thought snaps him back into reality. He kisses House’s lips again, this time almost agonizingly slow, but just as deeply, appreciating House’s cooperation as they painstakingly map out the soft curves and delicate skin of each other’s mouths. 

As he comes down from the initial high of having House’s hands and lips on him James begins to mourn what could have been. This can’t last, in fact it can barely start, he hadn’t meant for this to get very far. That’s why he’d given House a fake name, he couldn’t possibly build a relationship on a lie, his marriage was crumbling for similar reasons.

All those stories about where he’d been late at night, the false calls from the office, it had all slowly eroded what trust he had with Sam. And now with House, there was already a lie, he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t, he wasn’t even sure he was ready for a relationship with a man, he’d never even experimented in college.

House is rubbing his back in soothing circle and the soft kisses along his jawline begin to bring James round again. He looks up mournfully into House’s softened eyes and wonders if House can see his apprehension. House pulls a hand from James’ coat and runs his long fingers through his hair.

Their lips are just a hairsbreadth apart and House kisses him again firmly, god, does James want more but he pulls away after a few dizzying moments.

House leans away from him. “Bathroom,” he says almost so quietly that James doesn’t hear him, but the implication is clear. Something inside him wants to follow House, but this is as far as he can take it, he’s frightened of getting too involved with a person he could fall for so easily. If he hadn’t already fallen for House.

House lets go of him and steps into the crowd who haven’t slowed at all in the time that they’ve stolen up against the wall. James watches until he can’t see House anymore, and then he heads for the front door. 

He keeps his head down, just in case House is right and someone from the conference recognizes him. He steps out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The air has only cooled a few degrees but the humidity is still oppressive. His sports coat is becoming more and more uncomfortable. 

As he walks down the street, he realizes he doesn’t want to go back to his hotel, he wants another drink. He wants to try to forget House and the warmth of his lips and the divorce papers that make him feel as though his heart has sunk to the bottom of his gut. He walks a few blocks, turns and then walks a few more until he finds a fairly empty bar and wanders in.

***

The two scotches hadn’t mellowed him. In fact, they seemed to have the opposite effect, his blood was up and it roared in his ears but it couldn’t drown out that goddamn Billy Joel song.

Over and over and over again, the lyrics had started to run together, he couldn’t tell how many times it had been played by the moron leaning against the jukebox. James sipped the watery scotch at the bottom of his glass.

He had silently willed the man not to press that button, the number twenty-nine nearly scratched off, again. He’d asked him several times to pick another song, any song, and now he was seething with rage. The CD whirred quietly for a moment signaling the end of the song, James was on the edge of his seat and he watched, almost as if in slow motion, the man as he lifted his finger and with a deafening click pressed down that fucking button again.

James hadn’t even realized he’d thrown his tumbler until he heard the shatter and turned to see the glass spilling from the mirror onto the floor, and by then it was too late. He spun and lunged at the man by the jukebox, catching him across the face with a heavy if ill-aimed punch. 

He can’t remember the rest, just the rough hands that dragged him away from the man splayed on the floor and then being cuffed and shoved into the back of a cop car, his chin bouncing painfully off the hard, plastic seat.

And now here he is, curled around his bruised left hand on a cot in a jail cell. The canvas smells of sweat and mildew and he shudders at the thought of having his face pressed against something that has clearly never been washed but he can’t imagine being anything but horizontal after all the alcohol. 

He’s dreading tomorrow morning, he’ll have to call Sam and explain his predicament, he just hopes she’ll pity him enough not to bring up the divorce papers for a while.

Shit. The divorce papers.

James lifts his head and glances around, his worst fears confirmed, he’d shucked his sports coat in the last bar and left it on the stool next to him before everything went to hell.

He groans and sets his head back down on the cot. It’s no use worrying about that now, not when he was pretty sure he could be revisiting all those shots of tequila any minute now. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Just as he is beginning to doze off, he is jolted awake by a harsh clanging on the bars of the cell. James’ head snaps up and he stares bleary-eyed at the figure rattling a baton against the steel bars.

In a lilted drawl a man’s voice cries out, “What we've got here is, failure to communicate.” 

James recognizes the voice, despite the phony Southern accent. “You look more like Boss Godfrey than the Captain,” he groans as he sits up. He can see House smile even in the dim and fretful glow of the aging florescent lights. 

“Paul Newman movies,” chuckles House, dropping the drawl, “I knew you were gay.”

James manages to laugh a little at that too and scrubs at his face with his hands. “I’m sorry I took off like that.” 

“I figured you’d left when you didn’t follow me,” House says nonchalantly, “Now c’mon, I’m bailing you out.”

James stares at him stunned, “Bailing me out?” He stands unsteadily. “How’d you even find me?”

House shrugs, “You’d be amazed at the kind of attention three cop cars attracts, I got curious. Hurry up, the cab’s waiting outside.”

He raises the baton, swiped off a cop’s desk no doubt, and thrashes it wildly against the bars once again. “Ooh, room service!” House’s voice rings out in the concrete room and the sound makes James’ headache flare.

Luckily a stony-faced cop isn’t far off and only a few moments later James and House are making their way down the hall and into the station’s front room. Just as they’re about to pass through the doors leading outside the cop steps in front of them and extends his had forcefully, palm up.

House stares at him innocently and for a moment James is concerned that the night isn’t quite over.

“Sir,” the cop says.

House rolls his eyes and slaps the baton into his leathery palm. “Goodnight, officer,” he says with a tone of finality and the cop moves off.

James reaches up and taps House’s shoulder, he’s watching the cop turn the corner. “Can we go now?”

Just as the cop disappears James watches in horror as House snatches a sharpie off the desk beside them and scrawls ‘ACAB’ with bold strokes on the white concrete wall. House clearly hasn’t finished when he throws down the marker and begins snorting wildly.

“House! Shut up!” James blanches when he hears the loud thud of boots doubling back towards them in a hurry. He grabs House’s arm and they both rush out of the station to the taxi cab waiting patiently by the curb.

James throws open the car door and they tumble onto the cracked faux leather seats. The startled cabbie spins around and James makes a frantic chopping motion with his arm while House slams the door shut with such force the car rocks once.

“Just drive!” James finally manages to sputter out between panicked gasps. 

The cabbie steps on it and both he and House are jolted backwards into the seats. When he regains his balance and sits up James turns and peers out the rear window as House buckles himself in. Three or four cops are standing on the curb silhouetted by the harsh station lights.

“Think they’re gonna chase us?” House asks nonchalantly and leans back into the seat to get comfortable.

“No, but did you really have to do that?” James pulls the seatbelt down from over his left shoulder and buckles it as well.

House shrugs, “They deserve it.”

James can see House’s contented smile in the soft orange glow coming from outside the cab. He can’t help but reach over and gently brush House’s hand with his. House responds immediately, covering James’ hand with his own and lacing their fingers together.

“Gotcha something,” he says and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “Ta-da!” he produces James’ credit card with a flourish. 

James takes it from between House’s middle and index finger, in his hurry to leave the gay bar he must have forgotten to get it from behind the bar. “You’re some kind of miracle worker,” he mutters, stunned.

House gives him a confident smirk, “I prefer guardian angel, it has a little more panache.”

James laughs quietly, sliding the card back into his wallet. He can feel the weight of House’s stare on the side of his neck and his ears burn. “Where are we going?” he asks without looking at him.

“My hotel, which just so happens to be yours as well.”

James whips his head towards him, “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” he exclaims. “You saw me at the conference!”

House shrugs, “I saw you a few times.”

“Why’d you follow me?” James leans in a little closer to House, their knees brush lightly.

House shifts in his seat, “I saw you, with that envelope. You kept staring at it but you never opened it.”

Damn, the envelope. “Yeah well, I never did and I left my jacket in that bar.” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Divorce papers don’t matter?”

“Lawyers keep copies, and why read what you already know? There’s not gonna be a loophole.”

House is rubbing his thumb softly over the back of James’ hand, he can feel the tightness is his chest loosen with every warm breath that ghosts over his neck. House is so close again, James doesn’t ever want to put distance between them again.

“James,” his name is whispered so quietly he almost misses it, but it sends a bolt of electricity through him, his skin prickles, he’s never heard his name said like that, like it holds an undeniable truth.

He swallows thickly. “I still don’t know your name.”

James watches as House reaches into his pocket again and holds out a driver’s license to him. He stares at the name ‘Gregory House’ printed neatly beside a photo that he could find next to ‘scowl’ in the dictionary.

“Told you,” House says and James looks back up at him.

“I lied to you though, why would you trust me?”

House scoffs, “Everybody lies.”

James clenches his jaw, he tries to read House’s face for anything that might give away what he is actually thinking, but there is nothing, just wide blue eyes locked onto his.

He sighs and rests his head on House’s shoulder. The dawn is just beginning to break and windbitten clouds from the sea are glowing pink overhead. House leans into his touch and after a moment motions to the front of the car.

James follows his gesture and sees the bobblehead glued to dash. “Oh, Christ,” he mutters.

“Is that any way to talk about Him?” House laughs and they watch as a bump in the road sends the Savior's head into another nodding fit. “ _I don’t care if it rains or freezes..._ ” House starts, keeping his voice low so that the driver doesn’t hear.

“ _As long as I got my plastic Jesus_ ,” James sings, even quieter, he’s beginning to nod off.

“I’ll be your plastic Jesus as long as you’re my Virgin Mary,” House whispers suggestively, “If you get my drift.” 

“I don’t think I qualify as a virgin unfortunately.” James smiles when he feels the rumble of House’s laugh against his cheek. 

“Don’t worry, they have cures for that now, I’m sure we can find the right kind of priest in this town.”

James drifts off to House’s hushed voice and the hum of the car around him.

_Goin_ _’_ _ninety, I_ _ain’t_ _scari_ _-ed_

_‘Cause_ _I got the Virgin Mary_

_Assurin_ _’ me that I won’t go to hell..._

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments and critiques are so appreciated! Thank you so much for reading!


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